Nathan’s been on Instagram. He’s salty.
LET’S DISCUSS. YOUR INSTAGRAM JOB TITLE SAYS YOGA INFLUENCER, BUT YOU’RE SENDING ME HIGH-DEF VALENCIA-FILTERED PHOTOS OF A BIKINI-CLAD BODY. DON’T GET ME WRONG; YOU ARE ROCKING THE HELL OUT OF THAT TWO-PIECE. YOU SHOULD BE PROUD, AND I’LL GLADLY DONATE TEN CENTS TO HAVE A PICTURE OF YOUR APPLE-SHAPED SUBSTRATUM SENT TO MY INBOX FIVE TIMES A WEEK. WHAT? YOU’RE NOT SELLING ASS? NOW I’M CONFUSED. THEN WHY DID YOU TAN IT SO EVENLY? AND, MOST IMPORTANTLY, WHY DO THE FOCUS LINES RUN RIGHT DOWN YOUR FAULTLINE?
Ok, we’re playing make believe – I’m with you. You pretend thousands of people are interested in your downward dog, not your thong. Yeah, and we watch Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson movies for the plot. I’m no hater. If you want to brandish your bits to a million of your closest friends for a couple bucks, go for it, I’ll play along. Exploiting yourself on social media is harmless; unfortunately, other forms of social media exploitation cause far more damage than clickbait flesh.
I’m looking at you, #VanLife jackasses. With your oiled abs and precision-trimmed hipster beards, you stare seductively from your carefully-curated feeds, inviting us to, what? Watch you standing around campgrounds taking photos of yourselves like narcissistic creeps? Envy your square-jawed laughter as you perform mundane tasks like pitching the tent? Gaze at your ropey forearms as you gather ‘round campfires playing shitty surf rock on acoustic guitar? No woman, no man, is falling for your nonsense. “You know, I have been looking for a good-looking, homeless man with no job who documents every minute detail of his existence.”
These assholes will exploit every cranny on the planet, peddling secret, local knowledge to send thousands of people (who they’ve never met) to take a dump on your favourite beach, blast DJ music at your tranquil swimming hole or steal rare rocks to validate their existence.
Being an “influencer” is not about having life experience. Most of them are fresh out of school; there’s no suffering, no struggle, no tragedy. Has your hair fallen out? Have you squeezed a small human out of your huha? Gone through a divorce? Cared for your ageing parents? Lost a friend—or a finger? With idealism and naiveté blinding critical thought, their lives revolve around the mundane aspects of their boring-ass selves—just as it has for all twenty-year-olds, ever. The difference now is that this new version of the twenty-year-old idiot has a platform, and a following! Who looks to a twenty-year-old for guidance? That’s like asking your weed guy for career advice.
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And if you really boil it down, what makes an influencer? It’s not just having a following; an influencer has to be a peddler of ass. Underneath the veneer of idealism is ruthless capitalism, the selling of anything and everything, including themselves and their shrunken souls, in order to perpetuate the one-dimensional, vanity-soaked lifestyle they have chosen to lead. The person is the brand and the brand is the person; the influencer produces no product or service to improve society. Therefore, when the product du jour they peddle is found to be tainted, the event a Fyre-level fraud, or a beach ruined, the person/brand simply sails away to the next sponsor and the next secret location. Sound familiar? You might also recognise a world leader who used this business model to take over the most powerful country in the world despite knowing only eight words.
Our country is struggling to handle hordes of overseas travellers and we need to acknowledge (read: tar and feather) influencers who sell off once-undisclosed hot pools, tramps and, my personal pet peeve, fishing locations to their followers in order to score a bit of free gear to sustain their free-wheeling, earth-loving (exploiting), worthless existence.
Seem harsh? Recently, here in Wānaka, there was a contentious cell phone tower being erected in a local’s front yard. What was the purpose of this cell tower? Would it improve search and rescue efforts or medical coverage in rural Otago? No and no. The tower was installed to handle the enormous volume of self-promoting, earth-exploiting pics and videos streaming from the top of Roy’s Peak.
Brutal Life Update: You’re an adult, nobody gives a shit about you. I know this sounds depressing, but it’s also freeing. So, for the love of god, please quit taking all these damn photos. If you own a selfie stick, it’s time for some self-reflection.
I understand you love Mother Earth and want to share her beauty, but just so you know, your photos promoting #Van Life, #yogainspiration, #naturephotography, or even #sustainability are putting as much carbon in the atmosphere as the airline industry (no joke, look it up). You don’t actually believe “the cloud” is made of water particles? It’s a colossal warehouse full of servers that require enormous amounts of electricity to run and keep cool so you can discuss global warming on Facebook. Every dumbass photo you take has a carbon footprint, so maybe skip the 5MB image of your ramen noodles next time.
1964 will never give away secret locations, best hikes or top ten list of things to do. We will aggressively sell our artists’ art, but we will not be exploiting New Zealand’s best kept secrets (or people’s body parts) to make a buck. Ever.
NATHAN WEATHINGTON
